Life Among The Undead


I cannot explain why

or how I continue to place myself

on the auction block,

to be poked,

prodded,

groped and enjoyed

and

for a moment,

held

by these men of violent persuasions

that want nothing more than to

use me

for their temporary empowerment. They

drink from my essence

like a fraternity of

JV dracula’s clinging to the veins

of the unwilling for another chance at eternal

existence as the undead.

Blood Sport

Love Sport

Power Lusts.

They are not living,

yet I cannot die.

I subsist in a prison of my own construction,

testing the bounds of my humanity,

the power of the aorta

to continue to pump

enough

life force

to remain alive

while becoming intimate with death’s

shadows.

It would be more sad,

perhaps,

If i were helpless

but the flow of my own blood

was at once cathartic,

a ancient ritual of bloodletting

freeing me from my weaker self

positioning me as the fuel of another’s

survival,

a life force,

sustaining ecosystems

flawlessly.

Even the Earth has her limits,

as I arise,

closing the holes of my veins

I marvel at my own fuckery,

the hubris,

the waste,

the pieces of my

brilliance,

time,

love given to boys

who became drunk at the sight of me

never taking in my true image

or essence

or divinity.

I almost killed myself,

trying to live among them.

Follow Tabias Olajuawon on Twitter @BlaQueerFlow. Like our page on Facebook at BlaQueerFlow & Tabias Olajuawon Wilson.

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